What's Past is Prologue
by Majnoona
Summary: Sherlock and John both have secretes in their pasts that they would rather forget, but a new case keeps dragging things out into the light. IC, Rated T for the usual drugs, dark pasts and dead bodies. -Complete story, now with epilogue!- R&R SVP
1. Chapter 1

"Bored!"

John heard the word before he was through the front door and instinctively flattened himself to one side of the stairs. "Don't shoot!" he called up.

"Borrrrred!" It rumbled down the staircase like thunder.

"Sherlock? I'm coming up the stairs. Please, put the gun down."

"Don't be an idiot, John. I ran out of ammo ages ago."

John let out a huff of air and gathered the groceries back into their sack before taking the stairs two at a time.

"No shooting?" He asked as he slowly entered the living-room where Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, one foot finding the tiniest space between the half-a-dozen tea mugs that covered the coffee table.

"No shooting."

"So," John hesitated on his way into the kitchen, "should I not open the fridge? Please tell me now, because I'm looking forward to a nice cuppa and the last time... well it put me off for the whole evening."

"No, no, the fridge is fine." Sherlock dismissed the idea with a wave. "I had to throw out that last arm this morning."

John set the groceries down on the table. "OK, so no shooting, no body parts... what else should I be worried about?" He looked around the kitchen for a chemistry set or suspicious bucket.

Sherlock sat up all at once knocking over a mug that he just managed to catch before it hit the floor. "What are you going on about?"

John walked back towards him and leaned casually against the wall pointing an accusing finger. "You are bored, you haven't had a case in days," he pointed at the wall, "no bullets," he pointed at the fridge, "no experiments... this can't be good."

"Ah," said Sherlock in that way that suggest he's heard far more than John said. "You are concerned that, without a case to occupy me, I will turn to some sort of destructive diversion."

"Well, something like that. You have to admit, you are dreadful when there hasn't been some midnight run through London, hot on the heels of a killer." John chuckled, shaking his head. He turned to put the kettle on. "You're like a kid who needs a new toy every day or he'll throw a fit."

"_I'm_ not the one with nightmares," Sherlock mumbled under his breath before curling up on the sofa again.

John froze, mid-step. "What was that?" He turned back to the sofa.

"Hmm?" Sherlock's face was buried in pillows.

"What did you just say-" John's voice was low and accusing, "and don't pretend you've forgotten and are already thinking about something more interesting..."

"I'm not pretending," Sherlock sulked into the pillow. "I _am_ thinking of something vastly more interesting."

"You said 'nightmares' – how do you know I – damn it all, I don't want to know. I'm not going to sleep now, thinking you're spying on me."

"I hardly need to spy on you, John," Sherlock finally twisted around to face him, though upside-down. "Really, the sweat rings on your night shirt and the bloodshot eyes would probably be enough, but on four separate occasions you've awoken yelling. You get up a few minutes later, come down to the kitchen, make a cup of tea and spend the rest of the night staring out the window only to shuffle back up just before you expect me to arise."

"I did recently come back from a war you know."

"But that's not it. That's not it at all. You're fine, as long as we have our occasional 'runs through London' as you call it. It seems that I am the one better able to cope with my boredom." He couldn't kept the hint of triumph out of his voice. "I imagine that, if this dry spell goes on any longer, you'll be asking for your cane back."

"Now Sherlock! That's just too much. You can't say something like that – I don't care how brilliant you are, there _are _limits to what I can take." He turned and headed out the door to his room, leaving the kettle boiling in the kitchen.

"John!" Sherlock righted himself and tried to follow, "Damn it, John, I didn't mean..."

Just then his phone rang. He threw one more frustrated look after John before pulling his mobile out of the dressing gown pocket.

"Sherlock here. What do you have for me?" He headed for the hallway while listening intently. "We'll be there in 20 minutes. Do _not touch anything_."

He waited until he had his coat and gloves on before yelling up the stairs. "John! That was Lestrade. He's got something for us. Will you come along?"

"No."

"John, I..." His face worked for a moment, trying to process the correct tone and expression, "would really appreciate having your assistance."

"No."

"Bloody hell," Sherlock muttered. "John, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Should you change your mind, I'll be at 400 Cartwright Gardens, just down from Euston Road." He waited a few beats before shaking his head at the pettiness of it all and heading down the stairs to hail a cab.

It was another brisk night. He tucked his scarf tighter around his collar and raised his arm high. A cab pulled over almost immediately. He only hesitated an instant – though he knew it to be totally illogical, he'd found himself reluctant to take taxis these last few weeks. But he shook off the feeling – it was highly improbable that there was more than one serial killer taxi driver about in the city. He sat down and pulled the door shut, only it wouldn't go. He looked up to see John with one hand on the door, his coat still open, scarf in hand.

"Fine. I'll come – but I don't want to hear another word about what I do or don't do in my sleep, OK?"

The taxi driver sneaked a glance in the rear view mirror clearly wondering when the bickering couple was going to shut up and sit down.

"Of course," was all Sherlock said before scooting aside to let John in.

John waited until they were underway to say anything. "So what is it this time?"

"A string of murders," Sherlock did his best not show any pleasure at the thought – apparently it was unseemly and possibly insensitive, in any case, John clearly disapproved. "Previously thought to be unrelated but tonight, tonight John, a clue!" He lost his half-hearted battled, his teeth flashing in a wide grin.

John just shook his head and pretended to look out the window, but Sherlock could see the smile playing around the corner of his mouth in the reflection. He decided not to point it out; John was so touchy this evening.

They sped through the London night without any further talk, both lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock caught John tapping his fingers against a knee just as he made note of his own increased heart rate. _We'll both sleep better tonight_.

John had the door open as soon as the cab slowed at the curb. Sherlock tossed a couple of bills towards the driver and shot out behind him. They were on a smallish street, part of Bloomsbury, with a half-circle park off to one side and a row of neat townhouses. Across the way were a couple of larger buildings, part of the University College Dorms. Down the road you could just see the lights of Euston Square shops.

"Not a bad neighbourhood," said John, looking around. "No our usual squats and train yards."

"No," agreed Sherlock, "though it tends to be overrun with students in the winter months and, worse, yet _American_ tourists in the summer." He wrinkled his nose.

Sherlock headed to number 400. A police car sat double-parked but dark in front.

"They better not have muddled up my crime scene," he commented as he strode across the street.

"There's no police tape," John noted as the pushed the door open.

"No, they're trying not to draw attention to the scene."

"Maybe not to upset the neighbours?" Offered John.

"Unlikely. More likely they're trying to keep the press one step behind their stumbling trail. If even the police have been able to link the murders, than the journalists will not be too far behind."

"Sherlock, there you are." Lestrade turned from where he was speaking to several men in full-body clean suits. "John," he gave a half-nod towards the doctor.

"So this is the fourth? Where is he?" Sherlock asked.

"Back through there, in the courtyard." Lestrade waved a hand towards the back of the house. "Man, mid-thirties, shot in the back of the head, no ID of course..."

John's phone rang and Sherlock shoot him a look of irritation. John looked at the number, brow furrowed. Sherlock raised a finger to stop Lestrade from continuing and watched John intently.

"Yes? Yes, this is _Dr._ John Watson – I'm no longer in service." He listened for a moment, his expression flickering between surprise and concern. "Susan, yes, of course. No, it's no bother at all... I'll be right there. OK. Goodbye."

He flipped the phone closed and looked up to see Sherlock staring at him. "I've got to go. Something's come up..." he stumbled over his words as he backed out towards the door.

"But John, we have a case! You can't just leave..." the door slammed shut behind him. "Oh, bother."

"Well, don't expect me to be your assistant," Donovan commented as she passed.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

In the courtyard the body lay undisturbed. Sherlock forewent the clean suit – so cumbersome over his coat- and pulled on a pair of gloves. He circled the body once, noting the position, the undisturbed foliage – mostly gone to brown sticks and wilted greens in the cold.

"He came in through the house," he commented, knowing Lestrade was there without looking up. "No signs of struggle, so it was with someone he knew, or at least, thought he knew. He came willingly, answering some call or text, probably alone, walked from the Kings Cross tube station."

"How come not Euston Square, it's just as close?"

Sherlock touched the toe of his boot to the sole of the dead man's shoe. "Construction dust. They're redoing the sidewalks in front of Kings Cross. Euston Square doesn't start until next week." The unspoken addition of "obviously" hung in the air.

Sherlock knelt down, almost nose-to-nose with the body. He prodded the front pocket with one finger. "Ah ha." On it was a a single handwritten line – the address of the last place the man would visit. "Dreadful handwriting," he couldn't help noting. He flung one hand out while examining a curled scrap of paper.

"John, hand me-" he started, then caught himself with a rueful smile. He began again, "_Lestrade_, could you hand me that evidence bag?"

Lestrade handed him the bag and Sherlock deposited the slip of paper.

"It's probably just as well your Doctor had somewhere else to be," said Lestrade, watching Sherlock circle the body again.

"How's that?" said Sherlock, before freezing in his tracks. "Of course. Yes, I should have seen it right away – look at the socks, the hair!"

"You got it that quick, did you? Took us over a week to make the connection."

"And four bodies." Sherlock added.

"Yes, well, this one was the clincher."

"All the victims recently left military service. And not just any service – service abroad."

"Iraq, the Balkans, Africa, and.."

"Afghanistan, like the good Dr. Watson. You were concerned that seeing a comrade-at-arms laid out this might bring back unpleasant memories." Sherlock backed away from the body, surveying the scene again. "How very considerate," he said, clearly thinking it a frivolous waste of time.

"Sherlock, a bit of advice," Sherlock didn't bother to look at Lestrade. "A little of consideration could go a long way to keep your flatmate, and assistant, from dropping you like the bad habit you are."

"Noted. So, he arrives, expecting a meeting with some known person, only to be laid low by a single bullet." He hunched over the flagstones, one finger tracing footprints in the dust. "Two people, one larger than the other, an imposing fellow – the muscle for the brains behind this operation."

"So there's an operation going on?" Lestrade looked doubtful. "Not some crazy on the loose with something against soldiers?"

"No, no," Sherlock dismissed the idea with a wave. "This is business. Someone is tidying up."

Lestrade's phone rang.

Sherlock can't help but grin. "Ah, I guess it's Spring cleaning, isn't it?"

* * *

Sherlock's cab pulled up right behind Lestrade's car. He was out the door and at the steps of the apartment building before Lestrade even had his seatbelt off.

"Not up there," said Lestrade as Sherlock bounded up the stairs. "He's around the side." He headed that way, trailed by two cops in uniform who had been waiting on the sidewalk.

"Outside again?" Sherlock paused on the landing to look around. "Interesting. Our men are not afraid of being caught. That's really too bad, the overconfident ones are usually dreadfully easy."

Sherlock was almost around the edge of the building when he spotted a familiar figure pausing under the streetlight comparing the numbers on the front with something written in his notebook.

"John?" Sherlock calls. "John, you came. Good, I could use an assistant."

John looked up, tense and distracted. "Sherlock? What the blazes are you doing here – you're supposed to be on the other side of town."

Sherlock blinked once, twice. Confusion is such an odd sensation: not at all pleasant but thankfully unfamiliar.

"You are not here for the case?"

"What case?" John was deathly pale, even under the yellow light. "Dear god, don't tell me you're _here_ about another body..." He dashed past Sherlock, around the side of the building where Lestrade has some lights directed onto a fresh corpse sprawled, face down, on the cement.

"Turn him over!" John barked.

Lestrade snapped to attention at the sudden ring of command, but held his ground. "This is a crime scene, you can't just come barging in flipping bodies over. We haven't finished-"

"Turn him over," Sherlock echoed calmly from the shadows. "I've already seen everything I need to know."

Lestrade looked from one of them to the other. Sherlock impassive as ever and John, staring intently at the body as if he could will it to turn over. Lestrade sighed heavily, but grasped the body with two gloved hands and rolled it onto its side.

John darted forward and crouched over the body. Sherlock noted how the tension went out of him, the shoulders relaxing, the left hand giving the just barest of tremors as John ran it through his hair and rocked back on his heels. "He's too old," John breathed, "it's not him."

"It's not who you feared it would be," said Sherlock, not asking a question. "So, John, tell us, who _were_ you expecting? Not someone you know well, because you couldn't recognize them from the back-"

"Stop. Just stop. It's none of your damn business, Sherlock. Not everything is about you and one of your cases." John stood up and started back towards the street.

"No, perhaps not everything. But _this _is." He stepped forward to block the Doctor's path. "What's going on John? How do you end up one step ahead of me, at the scene of a murder?"

"So is that what this is about?" John looked disgusted. "That_ I_ beat you to the scene? Sherlock, this isn't a game, it's not a race with winners and ribbons, it's peoples' _lives_."

"Don't be stupid. Of course there are winners, just as there are loosers." Sherlock nodded towards the body.

"Are you-" he looked flustered. "John, are you investigating something, without me?"

John had to tear himself from Sherlock's piercing gaze. The man had the mesmerizing stare of a mongoose. "This doesn't concern you. I can figure it out on my own."

"But why would you bother trying, if it really is so important to you, when you know that I can figure it out so much faster?"

John's mouth dropped open and he spluttered for a moment before finally laughing, not his usual cheerful laugh though, Sherlock noted.

"Sherlock, you really are impossible." He shook his head and threw up his hands. "Fine." He looked around at the hovering police officers, hesitating.

"John, you look famished," said Sherlock, understanding immediately. He took John by the arm and started to pull him towards the road with barely a nod at Lestrade. "Detective, you'll excuse us, we're needed urgently a fantastic Indian place I know just down the way."

"Wait, I don't get to hear what's going on?" Lestrade looked crestfallen but Sherlock merely shrugged. "Sorry, so sorry! Must be on our way." He hustled John along.

"Call me if you have any leads!" Lestrade yelled half-heartedly after them.

John couldn't suppress a scoffing laugh. "Sherlock, did you see that poor man's face? Really, you can be so cruel."

"Yes," he agreed, "but I was correct in ascertaining your reluctance to speak before an audience."

"Sometimes, Sherlock... sometimes..." John shook his head. _Sometimes you know exactly the right thing to do._

"What?" Sherlock leaned closer.

"Nothing." John gave him a passing pat on the shoulder, only adding to the confusion. "So, where's this Indian place? I hope they owe you a favor because I'm starving."

Sherlock waited until John had polished off a basket of Naan, a lamb vindaloo, and was nearly at the bottom of his second pint before broaching the subject at hand.

"You received a call, from someone you did not recognize, but who knew you..." prompted Sherlock.

"Yes, Susan" John was clearly reluctant to speak. "Susan Harris. The widow of Sargent Peter Harris."

"Ah," Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from leaping in with his theory as to how the rest of the story played out. He knew that tended annoy for some reason.

"Peter and I go all the way back to training. We thought it was great luck that we were posted together." John turned away, looking out the window, clearly lost in the past. "He was killed our second month out. Left behind a pregnant bride- Susan." He cleared his throat and took a deep drink, finishing off the pint. "I never met her, but he spoke of her constantly, and I guess he'd told her enough about me."

He coughed again, clearly trying to keep his composure, then let out a long breath. "It's Peter Jr – he's gone missing. She told me he'd fallen in with a rough sort these last few years – a teenager without a father, on the loose in London; you can just imagine. Anyway, he hadn't come home last weekend. At first she figured he was just off with some friends, but none of them had any idea."

"So she called you..." finished Sherlock.

John nodded. "She'd come across my blog a while back – don't roll your eyes, this is serious."

Sherlock tried to compose himself but also knew that John was grateful for small joke to break the tension.

"So I made some calls, went through his things and then got on his laptop – he had his email passwords stored, so I could log on to his hotmail account."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You've been paying attention. Very good John."

"Thanks," John said dryly. "Head of the class?"

"We need to go." Sherlock was up from the table and headed to the door. John followed, giving a grateful wave to the proprietor. It was too easy to get used to never paying for meals. John would have to watch himself or he'd start walking out on bills when not with Sherlock – as rare event as that was.

"His last email," continued John once they were back out in the bitter night air. "was a reply to a single line – "

"Drayson Mews," finished Sherlock.

"Drayson Mews. Where I find you, and a body."

"It doesn't bode well for Peter Jr, does it?"

"No, not at all."

"And you feel personally responsible, even though you have never met the boy or, before today, the mother."

"Yes I do."

"Well then, we shall half to solve this case and get young Master Peter home post haste." Sherlock turned and raised an arm "Taxi!"

"Where are we going at this hour?" asked John and they got into the cab.

"Clearly, we need to visit a certain man regarding the purchase of some illegal drugs."

John froze, one foot out of the cab. "Sherlock, are you mad! I thought you said you were-"

"Please John, you misunderstand me." His eyes sparkled, "_We_ are on the case!"


	3. Chapter 3

John felt Sherlock's eyes on him as the streetlights flickered by.

"What?" He finally asked.

Sherlock pursed his lips, giving him one of those looks that always made John feel like he was under a magnifying glass. "There's something you're holding back."

"Well, maybe there is. But Sherlock, you've got to understand, I'm not entirely comfortable with this – I'm only letting you in on this for Peter's sake." John rubbed his face and sighed.

"The father or the son?"

"The son, of course."

"Hmmm," Sherlock turned to look out the window.

"'Hmmmm' What? Sherlock, some times I think you just make these muttering noises to infuriate people. You don't know anything- you're just grasping at straws here." He wished he could keep his damn mouth shut some times. If there was anything to set Sherlock off, it was the suggestion that he was guessing.

"So, we are not pursuing the first lead anyone has found in this case? No John, I'm not 'grasping' at anything. I know!" John could only blink as Sherlock worked himself up into a full tirade.

"I _know_ that every time you speak of Sargent Hariss you touch your face, particularly covering the mouth, a well documented give-away that his name makes you feel shame. I _know_ that those dead men each recently came into a large sum of money despite not having any discernible source of income since their return. I _know_ that each of them was stationed in an area well known for being a distribution point for illegal drugs, the vast bulk of which is destined for the streets of London. I _know_ that each of them was found dead just outside of a rather posh property available for rent – they thought they were moving up in the world when, in fact, they were on their way out of it..."

John stared while Sherlock composed himself with a sniff and a slight loosening of the scarf.

"That was brilliant," said John when he could speak again.

"Really?" Cough. "I mean, yes, it was." He regarded the doctor with something almost like admiration. "Not very many people are be able to appreciate my line of thinking, especially when it means they are incorrect." He glanced out the window, "Ah, here we are – driver, right here! Thank you."

John stepped out of the door and was immediately yanked almost to the ground. "Sherlock, what are you-"

"Stay down," hissed Sherlock as he all but crawled out of the taxi.

"What? Are we under fire? I didn't hear-" Sherlock reached out and covered his mouth with a gloved hand.

"On my say, we head for that newsstand. Ready? Now!" They jogged in step the handful of paces to the side of a shuttered newsstand and flattened themselves to the side. Sherlock raised one finger and pointed to a deep doorway a little further on. He turned, waiting for something, then was off again, John on his heels, his heart beating wildly. They crouched, deep in shadows and again John saw Sherlock studying something across the street. He followed the man's gaze until it all clicked.

"The CCTV camera," he barely whispered, "you're timing it so we don't show up on any of the cameras." He didn't know if he was more awed or annoyed.

"Difficult in this part of the city," Sherlock whispered back while checking another camera above a chip shop, "but not impossible."

"Whatever you're up to, where ever we're headed, you don't want Mycroft to know, is that it?"

"I don't believe he has us under _constant_ surveillance, but this would be a particularly bad time for him to decided to take a peek."

"Wait a second Sherlock, what do you mean 'us'?"

"This time we're turning left and entering the fourth door down. On three: one... two.." Sherlock was off. John caught up to him just as a door swung open, letting them both in and closing, without a sound ,behind them.

John slowly straightened up, taking in their surroundings. "We're in a health food cafe?" The walls were lined with shelves, three deep in tea canisters, over a long wooden bar. A dozen small tables were scattered about, each with a small sign advertising the special smoothie of the day, free WiFi, and lunchtime yoga classes. "What kind of place is open at this hour?"

"Exactly John. Exactly." Sherlock continued past the tables and the counter, through the door to the kitchen and John followed after throwing a wistful glance at seeing so much tea and not a cup to be had.

The kitchen was a perfectly normal space – lots of things for boiling water and making healthy, organic, fair trade executive lunches. Sherlock didn't hesitate, but headed right for the back far corner to what was clearly the door to the cold storage. He disappeared through the door, swallowed up by foggy tendrils of cold air.

"Sherlock! Where the devil are you-" John looked around the empty kitchen in frustration, banged the metal counter top with one hand and then followed into the walk-in fridge.

The first thing he realized was, despite the mist, it wasn't the least bit cold. The second thing he realized was that he could hear people talking, somewhere up ahead where he'd expected to find racks of milk and cheese. He pushed aside hanging strips of plastic until he came to the back wall. Suddenly a familiar hand appeared seemingly out of the wall and made a little come-hither gesture before disappearing again. It was an illusion – the wall wasn't solid, but two, overlapping pieces with just enough space for a person to slide between.

On the other side was a large room – the size of the cafe, but a completely different décor and clientèle. Clouds of cigarette smoke, the likes of which John hadn't seen in London for years, rolled through the dim, reddish lighting. The room was edged with over-sized booths, some with curtains drawn, others pulled back revealing couples and individuals sipping drinks or just sprawled on pillows. The music was a thrumming electronic melody that made the floor vibrate.

Sherlock was standing to one side, his sleeve pulled back to the elbow as he smoothed down two fresh nicotine patches.

"Sherlock!" John yelled from a few feet away. But Sherlock didn't respond. John tapped him on the shoulder and he startled, making John wondering if he'd forgotten he wasn't alone here.

John leaned in close and yelled "What the hell is this place and how do you know about it – actually never mind the second part, I don't want to know."

"It's somewhere you can go when you need to disappear for a few hours. For whatever reason... but we're not staying here. It's quieter in the back room."

"_This_ place has a back room!" but Sherlock gave no sign of having heard him. They cut through the scattering of people milling about, most obviously drunk, high, or both John noted. Through another door and into the relative quiet of a darkened lounge.

"Mister H?" A deep, clearly American voice, came out of the shadow, followed by an imposing figure. The man was so large John realized there must be another, more forgiving, entrance (and probably a dozen different bold-hole exists). He was wearing an expensive black suit, black shirt, and black tie. He did not offer his hand. "Hey, it's great to see you back here. You've been missed!"

"Hello," Sherlock replied coldly.

The man nodded, clearly familiar with Sherlock's brusqueness. "Always right to business, of course. No problem, we'll get you and your... date... set up right."

"No, I'm not -" Sherlock and John both tried to interrupt.

"-Timothy is still here, you know. He remembers just how you like it, _Sir._"

Sherlock looked alarmed. "No! No, no need to, um, bother Timothy, we won't be long."

The man through a knowing look at John. "Trying to avoid a spat are you? Just as well, we don't need any trouble here."

"We're just here for information," John finally cut in.

"Oh, hrumph. It's your _other_ habit you're here about. One of those cases of yours. Well, whatever it is, I can't help you, I don't know anything, and you didn't even see me. Now good evening gentlemen, you can see yourselves out." He started to push them back into the red-light room, one huge, meaty, hand on each of them.

A wad of bills appeared in Sherlock's hand just before they collided with the door. The man scowled, but backed off a few steps to thumb through the money. After John had lost track of just how much there was the man looked up satisfied. "Make it quick – really quick. Then get out and don't come back. Ever."

"There's a new supply in town. What's the source?" Sherlock did get points for directness, noted John.

The man laughed, looking around. "That's a funny question – especially coming from you." Sherlock's gaze didn't waver. "All right, it's not actually new – it's a very old supply pipe, just with some fresh blood. The guy running it? Well, you've even met him, right here actually. Not that you'd remember it. No, I don't know his name and don't want to. Now Get Out."

He must have thumbed a hidden button by the door because two bruisers who could have passed for his bigger, meaner, brothers pushed their way in and grabbed Sherlock and John by the back of the collar. They propelled them through a series of doors and down a long, barely-light hallway before shoving them out an exit into a stark, bright light.

John picked himself up from the ground and looked around in shock. They were in the frozen food aisle of a Tesco market.

Sherlock brushed himself off and glanced about blinking. John looked at him for some sort of explanation but Sherlock only shrugged and gestured towards the diary section. "Did you say we needed milk?"

* * *

Wasn't sure I was going to manage to get a chapter up tonight – hope it doesn't feel too thin on plot. Also, I'm an _American_ so please let me know if I'm getting things wrong, like confusing my jumpers and lories or mis-describing the inside of a Tesco...

Finally, R&R SVP! Otherwise I might not continue ignoring my family and job in order to keep this silly thing going!


	4. Chapter 4

John sat across from Sherlock in the cab as they headed back to Baker Street, a bag of milk, beans, and tea jostling between his feet. Sherlock was stone-faced, his eyes catching the first hint of a very gray dawn as he stared out the window.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," John said softly.

"What? No, don't be absurd." Sherlock spoke too quickly. "I'm not anything of the sort."

"It's fine," continued John. "Really, who doesn't have a few dark times in their pasts? In case you haven't noticed, I'm really not one to judge."

"I can't imagine what you could be referring to."

"Oh, come off it Sherlock – _that _place? _Those _people? And what was his name – Tommy?"

"_Timothy,"_ Sherlock corrected, one hand reaching to cover his mouth just as the name popped out.

They both watched his hand fall to his side.

"Using my own tricks against me, are you?" Sherlock said, finally meeting his eyes. "All right, I will own up to it: the period when I frequented _that place_ was not my most productive. It was not a good use of my intellect, and for that I find myself somewhat chagrin." He turned to the window again.

John thought that was all he was going to hear on the matter, but Sherlock continued after a moment of reflection. "The strangest part, when I think back – and it's not a time I often return to – is not being able to understand what the thought process was that took me to that point. I think... I think that I did not want to think any more. At least that's all I can deduce from my behavior."

"Wanting not to think – or to remember, is something I can understand," said John. "But, the person you were is not the person you are now. It was just something you had to go through to get here. Sometimes things make sense in a certain context and you find yourself crossing a line."

Sherlock seemed to accept this, but his expression didn't soften.

"Sherlock, you asked me before what I wasn't telling you. Would you like to know? What it was about Peter, his death, and what we got ourselves involved in?"

Sherlock only nodded, but gave John his complete and total attention, something John always found slightly disconcerting.

"I told you we were first stationed together- it was in Kandahar. We were well trained, but nothing can prepare you for actually being there. We were under fire on an almost daily basis. The things we saw – terrible injuries on both sides. We were there to take care of our soldiers, of course, but Peter had some friends who had been out there before, friends with these local contacts. Through them we joined up with a group – it wasn't exactly authorized, but the higher-ups knew it was going on and let it happen, figured it was good public relations or something, as long as they didn't have to be responsible. We supplied front-line medical aid to anyone who needed it – no questions asked. We'd spend 12 hours on regular duty and the another 8 on the side stitching up the guys who'd been shooting at us a few hours earlier."

"All seems very noble," said Sherlock, obviously wondering what the relevance was.

"Part of the whole "not entirely authorized" thing was that we didn't have access to much in the way of supplies. We managed to scrounge for the basics – first aid sort of stuff. But what we desperately needed were narcotics – painkillers. You can't imagine what it's like to hear people screaming, begging you to help them, when all you've got is some codine tablets and bandages. And right in the middle of the largest narcotic producing region in the world."

"Peter found you a supplier," Sherlock said.

"I didn't ask any questions, where it came from or who. I was just glad to have it. Sometimes it was just rough, local stuff, but other times it was refined, obviously for export, you know?"

Sherlock nodded. He knew very well. "How did Peter die?" he asked.

John grimaced and put his hands over his face, rubbing at the temples. "On one of his supply runs. He was picked off coming down the street to our make-shift clinic. We had a hell of a time fudging the report, but if we'd come clean there would have been trouble for Susan- benefits and things like that."

"You did what needed to be done."

"I'm a soldier, Sherlock, I what I _needed_ to do_ was _to follow orders, not find a way around them."

"You are also a doctor. You needed to help people."

"Well, helping people got my best friend shot."

* * *

"You should get some sleep," Sherlock said after the cab had left them on corner.

"Sleep? Are you kidding? Five men are dead and there's a boy missing. I can't just go to sleep!"

"You need to sleep, and I need you at your best. We will have another busy evening tonight, I believe."

"And what are you going to do – _not_ sleep I'm guessing?" asked John as took off their coats and scarves in the entryway.

"No, I need to think. I've been given a riddle – 'new blood' and an "old supply pipe". What's more, the clue I need is hidden in my own memory. I know almost exactly when I must have crossed paths with the man we are looking for. My memory is perfect, I can recall every waking second since before I could walk. The only gap is a single weekend. An experiment, if you will, in overindulgence."

"Sherlock – are you telling me you lost_ two days_, in that place?" John tried not to imagine what sort of quantity and combination of chemicals it would take to blank out Sherlock's otherwise perfect recall.

"Please John, don't concern yourself with this any longer. You heard the man, I'm not welcome back. Now go lay down before you fall down."

John reluctantly headed up to his room, thinking he would lay awake awash in worry and adrenaline but he fell into a deep sleep with his shoes still on. He awoke hours later, groggy and confused to see late-afternoon sun streaming through the window before he remembered the bizarre night out with Sherlock. _But then again_, _a__ny night out with Sherlock is bizarre. _

He assumed Sherlock would be asleep – probably on the sofa, comatose after hours of staring at the ceiling. John had found him there more often than not when they were working round-the-clock. He kicked off his shoes and quietly descended the stairs, hoping to sneak a cup of tea without disturbing his friend. _Better try to get him to eat something today, too._

John was quite successful in not making himself heard. But Sherlock was not asleep. He was hunched over the coffee table, cleared of its usual mug collection. Instead there was an open violin case – not Sherlock's pristine case, but a battered old thing that looked salvaged from a street corner. There was no violin either, but different types of instruments: a syringe, a large spoon, a chemists flame, a wad of cotton, and several small ampules. The windows were blacked out with a blanket and a tea towel had been thrown over both the telly and the phone.

_Mycroft has our telly bugged? _Then the realization of what Sherlock was doing hit.

"Good god Sherlock! What the hell are you doing! I leave you alone for a few hours and- Bloody hell, is that heroin?"

"Don't be stupid. It's not heroin." Sherlock didn't look up. "It's a mixture of hydromorphone, cocaine, and caffeine. My preferred composition was a more temperate 7% solution of cocaine followed by a small amount of Absinthe, but we're trying to recreate the particular experiment which lead to my memory loss."

"Sherlock, this is utter madness!"

"No, it's basic physiology: environmental context-dependent memory. I recreate the environment, and evoke the memory. It's the only way John."

John slammed the violin case shut and tried to swipe the syringe from Sherlock's hand but he wasn't quite fast enough and only managed to scatter test tubes across the table. Sherlock sprung to his feet, using his long arms to keep the syringe out of reach as he backed up towards the kitchen. "I told you I would help you and I will. There is no reward without risk, John. Think of your friend, your loyalties to him."

"I _am_ thinking about my friend and my loyalties, you idiot!" Sherlock actually fell back a step in the face of John's naked fury. "Don't you dare pretend this is just about some sort of new found altruism- you miss it. That's what this _experimen_t is about! You miss being high and mindless and this is just the excuse you've been looking for."

Sherlock stopped retreating and his arm fell to his side, his fist white-knuckled around the syringe. "Is that really what you believe?"

"Sherlock, I don't think you can trust yourself when it comes to this." All the anger had gone out of John. He flopped back into the arm chair. "I know you think you're above all those petty emotions that you think control us 'idiots', that you always think with a clear, rational, mind. But, in this case, you might want to check if your subconscious isn't finally having its say." He tried to sound non-nonchalant, as if he didn't just almost come to blows with his flat mate – his friend._ Get him talking, analyzing..._

"Perhaps you are right." Sherlock sat back down on the sofa, but did not put down the syringe. "But I am also right – I can see no other way to solve this case. More people will die. I'm so close. Everything fits but there's no clear path forward."

"Why don't you take me through what you have so far," said John, resisting another glance at the syringe. "Just pretend I'm your skull."

"Ah yes, that might be helpful."

"I'm not actually just a replacement for a skull though, you know, right?" No answer. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, of course." A small smile flickered across Sherlock's face. "The skull never made tea."

He reached out and dropped the syringe on the table in front of John without looking at it. "Hint taken," said John as he headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on and dispose of the blasted thing.

Sherlock lay back on the sofa started ticking off facts on his fingers. "The facts are few: five men, recently returned from service, payed off and killed – presumably to keep them from sharing what they know about the organization. We have it on good authority that this is not a new organization but something that has existed for years, albeit in a less active state. Your friend, who did have some sort of tenuous connection could not be directly involved, but somehow his son has become..."

"What if Peter Jr wanted to get in touch with some of his dad's old pals?" mused John from the kitchen. Sherlock hadn't put the milk away, of course.

"You never contacted Susan or met Peter, why not?"

"Well, I guess it's like you said," John handed Sherlock a cup of tea and sat down with his own. "I'm ashamed of what happened. Whenever I had leave I always found an excuse to stay away, and then, when left for good-"

"You were even less interested in revisiting 'old times' especially when you had to protect his widow from the truth."

"Sounds about right," said John. "So the kid ends up tagging along with his dad's old army buddies and gets caught up in all of this."

"And either cannot or will not leave." Sherlock finished. He was stroking the inside of his elbow as he thought, a gesture that John always associated with nicotine patches but now found more disquieting.

"An old pipeline... John, has there been any recent gap when there were no British soldiers stationed in Afghanistan?"

"Sure, of course. In 1992- after the Peshawar Accords they kicked everyone out. Even our covert opts were withdrawn." He shook his head in disbelief, "You really don't read the newspapers do you?"

"Not important!" Sherlock was up again, pacing and almost vibrating with realization. "No, what's important is that there was a gap – before was the "old" and now is the "new". Think John, a smuggling ring, set up decades ago, broken in 1992 and now reestablished by fresh blood – new soldiers. It fits perfectly!"

"OK," John almost spilled his tea watching Sherlock whoosh back-and-forth. "Sounds good, but who's in charge? Who could be the link between the old and new?"

"An old soldier." Sherlock answered without a pause. "Someone who's seen past glories but now has to rely on younger men to do his work." He shook his head from side to side as if trying to shake a thought loose. "But where to find this person..."

"That's it!" He turned an pounced. "John, if you wanted to remember, if you wanted to be reminded of the war, where would you go?"

"I don't know."John tried to regain some sliver of personal space but was pinned to the easy chair. "I spend too much time trying to do the exact opposite."

"Think John! Bring it back – what's the context. What are the sights, sounds, and smells?"

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath and tried to bring it all up around him.

"Well... um. I don't know... it's loud?"

"No! Damn it, everywhere is loud! Try harder!" Sherlock pulled him to his feet. "Think of the nightmares. Think of your friend Peter- anything that evokes strong emotion will help..."

John screwed his eyes up tight, biting his lip as he let his mind loose in the dark corners. After a few seconds of intense concentration he let out a huff and started pulling at the neck of his jumper. "I can't Sherlock, I just can't It's too bloody hot, this thing is suffocating."

Sherlock fell back, disappointment clear on his face.

"I'm sorry," offered John as he pulled the jumper over his head. "We can try again later." He looked around huffing. "I have to have a glass of water, I'm parched!"

Sherlock watched him head to the tap and then let out a mighty gasp. "John! You're brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"

John polished off a glass of water and started to refill it. "What? I am? Why?"

Sherlock headed out the door. "Put your jumper back on – we're headed out. And I know exactly where we're going."

* * *

Notes:

*I tried to do some research into military life in Afghanistan, but most of that background stuff is conjecture. I have no idea if something like John's story does or could happen there. I hope, at the very least, I don't offend anyone who has actually been through it!

*I hope The Case is hanging together well enough (mysteries are hard, who knew?) and that Sherlock's deductive leaps aren't too implausible

*Thanks to everyone who's reviewed! If you're waiting for the end to say something, do it now to give me a little push to get to get us all there. I should be able to wrap things up in the next chapter. Maybe tomorrow, but might be early next week!


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock dashed about, grabbing his mobile, his scarf, shoes and coat and totally missing that John hadn't budged from his place next to the sink.

"Well, come on! We have to get a cab – speeding through the London night and all that. That's what we do when I have a lead."

"No."

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"Well, for one thing, it's nine thirty in the morning, so there's no night to speed through." John put his glass down with a bang. "And for another, I'm not going anywhere with you until _before_ you explain for once. No more of this 'I'll fill you in on the way there' business. I want to know how you could possibly have gotten a lead from me pulling off my jumper and getting a glass of water."

"Oh, very well then." Sherlock pulled his gloves off one finger at a time. "Quite simple really: you attempted to immerse yourself in war time memories and in doing so you created a physical reaction to recalled stimulus- heat and dryness. You see, don't you? Where an old man, having served for years in Afghanistan, enduring the heat, would want to spend his cold, wet, London afternoon?"

"In a sauna?"

"No! No, John – in a desert. And there is only one desert in London." He watched John, waiting to see if he could make the final connection.

John's mind raced. London, hot and dry, like a desert? Where... then he had it.

"Kews Garden?" he said. "You think he's one of the old men who hangs around the botanical gardens?"

"The Princess of Wales Conservatory to be precises." Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "And with a fresh murder on his hands, he's sure to be there today."

"All of London out there, and you're sure you can guess where one man will be right at this moment?

"John, we've been over this. I don't guess; I _know_."

"Well, ok, then." _It's not like we have a better option. _ "Let's go." John waited until Sherlock had turned and started down the stairs before pausing by the bookshelf and pulling his handgun out from between two battered paperbacks. He checked the clip and the safety, as much a habit as breathing, before slipping it into his coat pocket.

"John!" Sherlock called from the front door.

"Just making sure the kettle's off," John replied as he headed down the stairs.

It was a good 30 minutes across town to get to the Gardens. John was silent and distracted the entire time. Sherlock deduced that he was simultaneously concerned that they were pursuing a frivolous lead and fearful of meeting the man behind a string of murders and a possible kidnapping. Sherlock passed they time by analyzing possible outcomes, registering the slightest twinge of unease at the number of undefined variables.

It was just after 10am when they arrived. If their man fit the average sleeping patterns of a man his age, he would have been awake for hours before the gates opened at 9:30 and would now be installed in the desert room of the main building.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and got out. John exited right after and headed directly towards the ticket booth without stopping. There was something in the doctors intent expression that caught Sherlock's attention. It took him only a heartbeat to realize what it was – John was normally always right beside him or, perhaps, a few steps behind. Now he was charging ahead, not asking any questions or even glancing back to see if Sherlock was there.

Sherlock caught up to him at the ticket booth where John was already handing over several bills to purchase his ticket. Only his ticket.

"John," he put a hand on his shoulder to stay him for a moment. "You're not planning anything rash, are you? I am aware that you have close, personal ties to this case, but we need to proceed with some caution. "

"When have you ever proceeded with any caution Sherlock?" John replied with a small, tense, smile. Sherlock thought the light tone seemed forced, especially when compared with the obviously elevated heart rate, general pallor, and light sheen of sweat across John's brow.

John pushed his hand away. "I'm fine. I'm just going to scout ahead and see how crowded it is inside. It might be hard to spot this guy. You go buy your ticket. I'll wait just inside." He turned and walked away.

Sherlock started to follow, but a guard stepped out across the path. "Sir, you need to purchase a ticket over there."

Sherlock snorted in frustration when he turned and saw that a line had formed in front of the ticket booth. By the time he made it back to the entrance and presented his ticket to the infuriating little man in uniform, John was no where to be found. But Sherlock didn't need to pause at the map of the building to know exactly where to go.

Despite a growing sense of urgency, he kept himself at a quick walk. John was an even-headed, steady, fellow. There was no reason to believe he would put himself in danger. _Hmmm..._Sherlock broke into a run.

He dodged families and tour groups and ignored the occasional stare as he navigated through 9 of the 10 different environments in conservatory. _Of course the desert would be the furthest away..._

As he came around the last corner he noted several people exiting the room, casting distraught glances behind them. He pushed past them and through the door that held in the hot, dry air of the desert room. It took only a second for him to take in the entire scene: John, his feet planted wide in the light gravel covering the floor. His arm was extended, and in his hand, a gun aimed at the chest of an elderly man sitting on a bench with a portable oxygen tank leaning against a large cactus. Next to the old man was a young man with dark brown hair and the rumpled clothing that he'd obviously been in since he left his mother's home almost a week ago.

"Peter," John was saying, "step away from him. Come over to me."

"I know you," said Peter, not leaving the old man's side. "I've seen yous before, in photos. They sent all my dad's stuff back along with him – in a box, just like him."

"Your mother sent me to find you, you know. She's very worried about you. Now come on over here."

"Why should I? You never came to see me before. You never told me anything about my dad. Mr. Oliver here, he's told me everything – about war, about killing. He even let me watch him taking care of what needed to be done. He's going to make something of me he said."

The old man nodded and then burst out coughing. He adjusted the knob on the oxygen tank and took several deep breaths. "I needed someone young. Someone who could carry on for me. Not one of those punks that came back. Not someone broken, like you, Dr. John Watson."

John flinched at his name, but the gun didn't waver. "Oh, I know you all right. And you know me, even if we've never meet before. I'm like a spider in the middle of a web, and you've helped yourself to a few of my flies before- and so has your friend, thought with a less noble purpose. Isn't that right, 'Mr. H'?"

"John," Sherlock stepped to his side. "I think you should lower the gun."

"Do you really think you can shoot an old man on a park bench in cold blood?" Mr. Oliver wheezed. "No, I don't think so."

"This man is responsible for the deaths of at least 5 soldiers, and probably more." John's eyes did not flicker, nor did his hand move. "Men who made it back from the front-lines, only to be shot in the middle of London."

"John," Sherlock spoke softy at his side, "not like this."

"He knows I won't go to jail," said Mr. Oliver. "He know no jury would convict an old veteran on death's door. I'll walk away from all of this and start again. London wants what I can get it. It always has and always will – before me, and after me too."

"I've killed before," said John. "I don't have a problem with killing. I've looked men in the eye, in a desert just like this, and shot them dead. I've done what I had to do."

"Who you were is not who you are," Sherlock almost whispered.

The gun dipped a few inches and John tried to steady his hand for a second more before lowering it and letting Sherlock take the gun.

"Damn it. Damn it all!" he said, rubbing his face with his hands and breathing heavily.

The old man cackled from his bench.

Just then, Lestrade came storming around the corner with half-a-dozen officers, guns drawn. They looked around at the old man and the boy on the bench, John standing in a corner with his back to them and Sherlock, gun in hand. "He's got a gun!" shouts one officer and they all take aim at Sherlock.

"No, no," said Lestrade, waving a hand. "He's not a suspect."

"This time," commented Donavan. Sherlock shot her a dirty look as she crossed his path.

"Sally," said Lestrade, warning in his voice. "Secure that gentlemen over there and somebody let the boy's mother know to met us at the station."

"John, are you all right?" Sherlock approached him cautiously, not sure if he should expect thanks or fury.

"No, I'm not all right."

"Sherlock," called Lestrade. "Thanks for texting, for once. Looks like we got here just in time."

"No, you were at least 4 minutes later than would have been useful." Sherlock and John started to the exit.

"I'm going to need to take a statement from you and Dr. Watson," said Lestrade, trailing after.

"Later."

"Sherlock, I need-"

"Later!"

"Come on John," said Sherlock once they were back outside, "let's go home. What you need is a nice cup of tea."

John nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, thank you. That sounds lovely actually."

"Good." Sherlock opened the door to their cab. "But could you be sure to add a touch more milk this time? And I think I'll take it upstairs, I have a project I need to check on. Just come knock when you have it ready. Thanks."

John can only watch as Sherlock gos in the cab, pulled out his mobile and proceeded to ignore him entirely. John took one more look around at the gardens, the families, and the police cars before climbing in after.

Epilogue To Follow


	6. Chapter 6

Couldn't just leave it like that, so here's a little Coda.

* * *

Sherlock burst in through the door, mobile in one hand. He stopped short and took in the room with that all-consuming gaze of his. John could tell Sherlock was surprised to find him casually sitting in his chair, cup of tea in hand, but he just smiled innocently.

"John, I just saw the news." Sherlock blinked a few times. "You haven't heard..." John was touched to realize Sherlock was trying to figure out how to tell him that Olivier's court case had just been dismissed.

"I know," John said finally. "Caught it on the telly a few minutes ago."

"But you're not upset? I thought..."

"No, no, I'm fine. Really, it's OK."

"But he... but you..."

"You mean how he murdered five soldiers in cold blood and was responsible for most of the illegal drugs on the streets of London?"

"Well, yes."

"And how I would have shot him, except for you stopping me?"

"And that."

"No," he shrugged, "I'm fine."

Sherlock looked baffled. It was an unusual expression for him and John couldn't help enjoying seeing his flatemate at a loss for words.

Finally, Sherlock crossed the room and sat down on the couch.

"Well, that's good then. I guess."

"Yup."

John's cell went off and he hopped up to get it out of his coat hanging on the back of a kitchen chair.

"Yes, this is Dr. Watson. Excellent. Yes, the papers are all signed. You'll pick him up tomorrow, right? Yes, extremely delusional, will need to be kept in isolation. A sad, sad story, but we'll do what we can for him. Thank you, good bye." John ended the call and tried unsuccessfully to keep a smirk off his face.

"What was that about?"

"Oh, nothing." He turned and put the kettle on. "Just helping out a retired soldier. Old fellow, quite mentally ill. I heard about his situation and pulled some strings to have myself assigned as his doctor. Had to order him institutionalized. He's so sick and old, I can't see him ever stepping outside again."

"I see."

"Damn shame really." John shook his head, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"I see," Sherlock repeated, a smile creeping across his face. "I'm shocked John, really, I am. You mean to say you've used your credentials to falsify medical records in order to execute what amounts to vigilante justice?"

John came back into the living room and handed Sherlock a cup of tea.

"Sounds about right," said John settling back into his chair with a fresh cup.

They sat in silence for a moment, enjoying their tea and thoughts.

"Well done," said Sherlock finally.

"Yup." John put his feet up on the coffee table.

"Dinner in? I was thinking Thai."

"Sounds grand. But then I'm going to turn in. I think I'll sleep well tonight."

"Yes, I think we both will."

The End.


End file.
